her dark eyes better bestowed upon the poor, appreciative poet, than upon the egotistic king. Her complaint, if set to music, would be sure of a very full chorus. Florence contemplated the sudden transition to life's minors with dismay. She knew all the caprices and tyranny of which her aunt's companion was the unfortunate subject. For hours each day must she read novels procured from the nearest circulating library. She must be industrious with her needle, clever in doing up laces and fine caps, and have, moreover, at command an inexhaustible fund of gossip on things which in reality concern no one. And now, this very desirable position was offered to her. Her aunt's letter was an odd mixture. She took it for granted that her niece would be highly flattered by the proposal made to her, and in great haste to enter upon duties which, in her estimation, were a sinecure. She did not refrain from a delicate, but unnecessary, intimation that, in the event of her death, her carefully-husbanded wealth might be found left to her solely. With a touch of genuine pathos she added that now, in her declining years, it would be sweeter to have her sister's child about her than a stranger. Florence was to write by return, saying "what day she would come."

Florence had that evening a sore battle with herself. What, give up this happy home! these congenial duties!

these friends and pupils so beloved! these golden hours of leisure!

And supposing she did, what was she to have in their place? She, with her intellectual tastes and dislike to material duties; of needlework, even when it was inartistic, the work all stitch upon stitch, one stitch like another? She could not; she would not do it; her heart would break in the attempt. Very well, then, let it break, if it must, for duty.

But had duty nothing to urge on the other side? Was not her residence here, judging humanly, of Divine ordering? Had she not been useful? Was she not likely to be increasingly so?

And Florence thought, with a pang, of the parting from Maurice and Mabel. But, with inexorable distinctness, came to her mind words which her mother had spoken to her on her dying-bed. Perhaps, because she had some suspicion of a lingering resentment in her daughter's heart; perhaps, because she had a prophetic sense of what might be in the future she was not to share. But the words now sounded like a prophecyDarling, if ever you can do your aunt a kindness, be it at ever so great cost to yourself, do it for my sake."

These words were a command. The sacred authority of Death was upon them.

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Florence prayed for light, for guidance; not without a secret hope that the guidance might be into the pleasanter path; but still the conviction deepened that she must obey the summons, by entering upon the other trying one, unmindful of its thorns.

She felt very, very sad: how sad no one but herself could know. Yet there was one drop of gladness in her cup. She rejoiced in the opportunity for the crucifixion of self. She trusted that to that cramped, narrow, unsatisfied life she might be made a blessing. How did she know but that God designed to make her a light in the darkness, a means of leading her, ere the night of death fell on her, to a knowledge of the truth?

In very few words she wrote to her aunt an acceptance, so soon as Mrs. Wetherill should be able to set her free.

Great was the grief in the Wetherill family when it was known that she must leave them. Mrs. Wetherill was ready to reproach her for giving up a position in which she was so useful for one so apparently beneath her as that of lady's companion. She was not quite kind in her remarks. Mr. Wetherill's best wish for her was that the old lady's days might not be without number, and that she might find herself amply rewarded; the worst of it was, such people generally took care to live a long time.

Maurice and Mabel, each in turn, took the liberty of closely questioning her as to the reasons for her decision. Maurice, in his astute way, drew from her her motives, that he might balance them in the delicate scales of his own judgment. The conclusion he arrived at was that “she must go;" "there was no help for it." Yet he saw the self-denial it involved. Not that he knew what her lions in the way really were, but he gathered that a companion's duties were not suited to her; that her aunt was differently constituted to herself; and that she felt sorrow at leaving a family of which she now seemed a part.

Florence had communicated many noble precepts to her band of students; but would these ever have come home to them with the force they now did, if she had forborne to take up her cross and, in this difficult dilemma, put them into practice? It is not likely that they would. Her life had, after all, been her most beautiful lesson.

Ere taking leave of them, she said to Mabel, aside"My dear, soon after you knew me, you told me I was like a mamma. That flattered me more than anything you could have said, for I have always had an ambition to be like one. Will you promise me that if ever you are in any great trouble or bitterness of spirit you will write to me, or come to me, just as you

would to a mamma? I shall always have open arms for

you."

Wondering greatly, Mabel made a half-promise; but it was not a promise she had much intention of keeping. She could neither see the necessity for exacting it or making it, yet thought Mrs. Dalgleish very kind and solicitous. Sorrowful incredulity of early youth!